Beneath the somber, ancient tapestry of the night sky, Virgo, your world is in the clumsy hands of fate. The stars—many of them already dead—seem to conspire in ominous arrangements just for you. Today, threadbare notions of safety and innocence are peeled back to reveal perverse realities. An unsettling laughter echoes from the unused rooms of your house. You discern strange inscriptions etched onto the dew-dipped autumn leaves. The haunting air is rent with moans of distant trains, tolling bells, and the late-night hoots of unseen creatures laboring under forces dreadfully beyond your comprehension.

Harvest a tincture of unease, born from everyday items. Doorways will betray you, tangible yet illusory, opening to spaces impregnated with obsidian degrees of loneliness. The milk in your fridge may turn sour before its time. Shadow-strewn subways threaten to spill their secrets onto your lap, burying you in the unspeakable refuse of other lives. Tonight, draw the curtains closer, burn the brightest candle you own, and engrave your breaths into a rhythm of prayer, as if the mere act of living is a delicate dance with the grotesque. Maintain vigilance, Virgo, for no horror lurks so close as the one that tread quietly under a veneer of the mundane, threatening to reveal the fragility of life’s carefully drafted illusion.